I went, I think at about the age of twenty, up into that house again and disabused myself of the notion, and at the same time recognized—with a start of surprise that might almost have been shame—that the dreaming landscape before which he stood as though upon a windowsill, a region I had always associated with the fairy tales of Andrew Lang (particularly those of the Green Fairy Book) and George MacDonald, was in fact a Tuscan garden.